


The Sun, The Moon, and the Wax-Winged Boy

by penandfink



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: ASoIaF, F/M, community: asoiaf_exchange
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-07
Updated: 2011-01-07
Packaged: 2017-10-14 12:09:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/149126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/penandfink/pseuds/penandfink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Petyr’s infatuation with Catelyn Tully is born early and doesn’t seem inclined to die.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sun, The Moon, and the Wax-Winged Boy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dirtyboots92](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=dirtyboots92).



> The prompt was: "Petyr's POV, compare/contrast Lysa and Cat. Youth, innocence, sexual exploration, angsty teenage backstory, obsessivness."

You’re eight when you first see her, standing on the steps of her father's castle with the water lapping at her ankles. You arrive by boat as everyone arrives by boat, gliding under the rusty low gate into a shrine of sandstone and sunlight, and she’s the maiden’s statue made flesh. Your boots are too dirty even allowing for the journey across the Tumblestone, there’s years of scuffing and stains from the sheep droppings of your humble home below the freshly acquired layers of river mud, and your clothes are too plain, and your hands too empty. But it’s alright, she’s only reaching out to let you kiss hers, and you find that you take easy to the idea.

“Charmed,” you say, as if you have any idea how to pull off a compliment. Your fathers laugh, _she_ laughs, and her sister is whispering something into her ear. You’re outnumbered, but you have time.

* * *

Still eight, and she lets you call her “Cat” already, instead of “Lady Catelyn.” You know that it’s because you’re a benign entity, too harmless to be worth guarding against with her arsenal of courtesy, but you make the most of it. You learn that Cat enjoys blackberries for breakfast and trout for supper and mint tea when she’s tired. Her favorite horse is her father’s gelding, and she has no favorite color herself but you think she looks heavenly in blue. You’re terrible at catching fish and you can’t seem to stomach blackberries, but you take to chewing the mint you find in the godswood under the redwood trees, hoping she will notice.

It’s there, and then, that you kiss her for the first time, having shown her the spot where you found the mint, and demonstrating for her the way you chew it. She laughs as if it’s some mummer’s show, and you realize she finds your quaintness amusing. It isn’t ideal, but for now it will do. You hold up a sprig as if to offer her a taste, and when she leans forward you meet her lips with yours, fighting into her mouth with your tongue. It’s a sloppy affair, and when you’re done you leave a thumbprint on her shoulder. Her sister Lysa is waiting for her turn, and you don’t mind it so much, you suppose. It’s good practice. Lysa puts up no fight when you push your tongue into her mouth, and she giggles when you’re done. “It’s a good game, right?”

“You’re quite advanced for your age,” Cat remarks, sweeping her younger sister up and heading back to her father’s castle. You wanted to be the first man to ever kiss her; maybe you can be the last.

* * *

At nine you think your world could very well be over. There’s a boy visiting Riverrun, a high lord’s son, bigger than you, older than you, handsome in that utterly boring way that only boring women appreciate. Brandon Stark is obviously a muttonheaded oaf but that doesn’t stop Cat from lighting up every time he smiles at her. What’s wrong with her? You’d think she was Lysa with the way she was carrying on.

The betrothal is announced by week’s end. These people don’t waste time. You wait until the two of you can be alone and ask her if she’s frightened. “Of course not, don’t be silly.”

You learn the way she breathes in ever so slightly before she tells a lie.

* * *

There’s business with the ironborn out at the coast so Lord Hoster has brought his brood along for a little trek across the riverlands. You’re supposed to be part of the family, and so here you are, camped out at Oldstones amidst the ruins of dead kings. Who knows what happened here. Who cares. You’ve found wildflowers and she’s letting you weave them into her hair. Her gown is white, the evening is blue, and she’s shining. Lysa’s there, but Lysa never makes you feel the same way. She’s pretty enough but her timidity rankles you, and when you look into her eyes you never feel like drowning. With Cat, you’re a man at sea, and the sea has swallowed your raft.

“Jenny was the Prince of Dragonflies’ love,” you remember aloud. Cat nods. “She was a commoner, but he loved her anyway no matter what they said.” Who this “they” was needs no explanation. All love stories have obstacles, that much will suffice. “I suppose you’re Jenny and I’m your prince, Cat.” Lysa looks slightly crestfallen, but that’s another thing you don’t much care about.

* * *

You’re sick. You’ve eaten seven mud pies and you may never be well again. But you ate them from her hands, and it was worth it.

* * *

You’re eleven and Lysa is twelve, and she’s always made for good practice, so why not? “No, not that way,” you instruct, tilting her head back for her to lick her neck. “Tell me when it feels good.”

“I like everything you do,” she says. She would.

“What about this?” You take a nipple between your fingers and pinch her through her gown. She jumps, but she doesn’t cover herself, and you have to admit that she’s a sport about things. “Here, let’s try something else.” You unlace your breeches and pull out your manhood, and watch her eyes go wide. She’s inelegant about it, but she takes you in her small, round white hands and starts stroking.

It’s good. But it could be better.

* * *

“What are you thinking about, Cat?”

She’s fifteen and lying in the grass, wriggling her pink toes in the mud. Her Tully cloak of red and blue is flung off a few feet away, and her auburn hair spills loose, an artless sunset. She’s a girl, she’s just a girl, and you’re just a boy, and you never told anybody where you were going. You’re thinking about her, but you resolve not to be upset.

“Clouds,” she answers, and then laughs at her own simplicity. “Clouds aren’t very pretty, are they. But I love the rain, it’s nice to get caught in.”

“If you like resembling a drowned dog, I suppose.” You lean down, propped by an elbow, and give her your most innocent smile. “Though I’m sure you could still contrive to look beautiful.” She’s giving you that look, the one that means she’s flattered and exasperated all at once, and the funniest thing is that in both emotions she’s being what she is supposed to be, a proper lady. You bring up your hand and trace the perfect lines of her face. It isn’t right for beauty to be wasted in its prime. “You should be kissed every day, you know that?”

This is not a game in the godswood, and she has to know it, and she doesn’t say no. Her mouth is soft and your tongue is clever now, you’ve learned so many things. You tease her lips and brush away her hair, and it’s sweeter and finer than Lysa could ever be. She tastes like milk and honey, and her skin is like sweetcream. Your move your hands along her shoulder, over her stomach, up to the soft curve of her breast, and she’s sighing. She’s living. She has yielded for the moment. You want to think she’s pressing into you, but it’s hard to tell what’s moving and what’s still, to remember how your hand found the leg under her skirts, bare but for a thin shift of linen. Your hand grasps her thigh through the fabric, and your thumb crawls up, up, as she parts her legs just enough. You know just how hard you are, how much more you can take, and you groan. You wish you hadn’t groaned. She sits up and shoves your hand away, smoothing out her gown before it goes any further and looking almost terrified. “Don’t. No more games.”

“I love you, Jenny. I love you,” you repeat, finding the stillness in the chaos of the moment. Her eyes are wide and yours are arrows. “Nobody will ever love you the way that I love you. Jenny,” you plead, pressing your palm into hers. Time is running out. “Jenny, please.”

She’s upset. “That isn’t my name, Petyr.” She will never wear your flowers again.

* * *

She’s a woman now, and heading up the feast while her father discusses menialities with Bracken and Blackwood in his lordly solar. Bracken’s brought a singer, and everyone’s dressed like jewel birds. The room is in perpetual motion. Edmure, the brother, is passed out on the table. He was drinking the wine, who isn’t drinking the wine? “Let’s have another song,” she says, right on cue – the people want to be merry, after all – and then rises with the assurance of someone who knows she won’t need to wait for a dance partner. Blackwood’s son is first, she’s a woman now and she knows how all this works, and there’s a few Braxes still floating around with their hilariously doomed hopes, a Piper and a Mooton while she’s at it. There’s even time for a carol with her uncle, because she’s the kind to find that sort of thing sweet.

She’s laughing, she’s happy, and you might be the last thing she needs, but you might not be. So many things might and might not be. She might hate you, she might hate her father, she might just be afraid. And what if it were so? She’s sad these days when she’s alone with you, as if she wishes things could be different, and she always kissed you back. She said no, but she said yes first. You ask, through your fear and nerves and the sick feeling in the pit of your stomach. Everyone’s watching, and you ask. She doesn’t say no. She’s in your arms, she’s happy, she keeps dancing, one, two, six. What else are you supposed to think?

Everyone’s watching, and you go to kiss her. Everyone’s watching, and she pushes you away. She laughs. It’s the end of the world.

You’ve had enough. Everyone’s drinking anyway, and sobriety is doing nothing for your clarity of thought. You’re defiant, you take a man’s swig. You’re being carried upstairs like a child. “What do you mean, causing a scene?” Nobody answers. It’s dark and you think you’re alone now, so you let the tears fall. You’re not ashamed to cry for her.

The door creaks, there’s a spill of light and then it’s gone, but you’re not alone any more. “Lysa?” There’s a hand on your chest, and your heart is pounding under it. In the stories love is a secret, a thing of shadows, otherwise they come for you to kill it. Everyone was watching, after all. Your love, your poor girl, what else was she supposed to do? You hear her shift fall to the ground and she’s drawing you out of your laces, and “I love you” are the easiest words that ever were. It’s awkward and there’s pain, and in the back of your mind you think that it would’ve been better that day on the riverbank, but you’re together, and that’s what matters. Now you know. “Cat,” you whisper, as you fall asleep on her breast. When you wake she’s gone.

* * *

A day at Seagard. Her guest room is next to yours and there are balconies for just these moments. She’s seventeen, she’s emerging into the morning, and you’ve never seen anything so beautiful in your entire life. You’re five years ago and she’s lost in the fog, and hadn’t she needed you then?

* * *

You’re dead. The water laps around you like a dirty bath, and there’s blood in it for all the sharks. Brandon Stark is twenty and you are defeated, irrevocably, undeniably. It’s in the book now. Out of the corner of your eye you see her favor still tied around Stark’s arm, and now you have to kill your heart. If this was a trial by combat then the gods have judged her love guilty of treachery.

Uncle Brynden – no, Ser Brynden Tully – comes to take you away from your ignominy. The final pronouncement: “There was never a chance.” You’re not dead, you only wish you were.

* * *

You’re sixteen, a man grown, and today she’s marrying someone else. Not even her precious, handsome Brandon Stark, but a substitute, one whose sole recommending trait is that he isn’t stupid enough to die at twenty. Passed down the line like old shoes, any pair will do, and she’s promising to love him. Who knows, they might have even started the bedding by now. Why do you still think on this? She never even answered your letter. It should be dead, this thing.

But it’s the thought of him touching her, of her letting him, it reaches you still and it’s worse than the wounds. It plays out in your mind in twenty-seven different ways but it all means the same thing. You, however, have a little secret. Hoster Tully has his fine friends, they have their war and alliances and noble words of honor, but you, as always, have your knowledge: you had her first. She _let_ you have her first. That will never change. There’s a way out of this, there’s a ladder somewhere in the snake pit, they want to keep you down but you can do more than slither. You have legs. You have options, you have Lysa and her new connections and her insipid, pliant affections. You’ve always been very advanced for your age.

And you’re outnumbered, but once again, you have time.


End file.
